Twelve Years of Christmas
by amyxaphania
Summary: Sirius Black reflects on Christmas past during his time in Azkaban. A series of drabbles.


Twelve Years of Christmas 

**For the first year of Christmas, there was pain**

He'd never felt such pain.

He'd been here for nearly two months, and in that time the horrific ache in his chest had not let up for a moment, and every time he closed his eyes, he'd see their blank, lifeless ones staring back at him.

The pain clawed at his insides, gnawed away at his heart, and he wanted nothing more than to escape its relentless ache.

His cell had a tiny window, and he'd spend hours sitting at it, gazing blankly out as tiny snowflakes fell and were consumed immediately by the rolling waves of the North Sea.

For the second year of Christmas, there was Harry 

It was almost Christmas.

Almost a week ago, he'd seen a family visiting a prisoner, the mother carrying a brightly wrapped gift. He'd seen them leave with the presents half an hour later. Clearly, their intended recipient hadn't felt like celebrating.

Seeing the family made him think of Harry. He'd tried not to think of Harry too much, because doing so made him feel worse than ever, something the Dementors could sense easily.

He wondered though, how he was. If he would be looking forward to Christmas, or if he even knew what Christmas was.

"Happy Christmas, Harry," he whispered.

For the third year of Christmas, there was rememberance 

It was strange to think that only three years ago he had been happy, or as happy as one could be during a war.

He could remember the last Christmas he'd had as a free man as though it were yesterday. It had been Harry's first Christmas, and they'd all converged upon the Potter's to celebrate.

He remembered James grinning like an idiot when Harry giggled and Lily bemoaning a horrific vase sent by Petunia. Remus had been tired – it was just after the full moon – but cheerful nevertheless.

As for himself, well, he had been in high-spirits, as usual.

For the fourth year of Christmas, there was hunger 

He had been changing into Padfoot more and more often, to escape the never-ending coldness of the Dementors.

Alongside the shaggy fur and four legs was a heightened sense of smell: he could smell the fetid breath of the Dementors, the stale rancidness of a hundred unwashed prisoners, and…the mouth-watering scent of roast turkey. He supposed the few wizards who worked at Azkaban were having Christmas dinner.

His stomach felt cavernous as it rumbled. He had never felt so hungry, so starved of everything, especially life.

But at that moment, he would have given _anything_ for a bite of turkey.

For the fifth year of Christmas, there was emptiness 

Five years. It had been over five years since they'd died, since he'd been thrown in Azkaban to rot. Most prisoners didn't last this long; they either died or were driven mad by the effects of the Dementors.

A hollow emptiness had settled in his stomach several months ago, and it remained now, not sated by the meagre meals of mouldy bread and cheese. The only thing that would fill the ache would be to see his friends again, and that was never going to happen.

Or perhaps if he could see Harry, see that he was happy and well.

For the sixth year of Christmas, there were memories 

He remembered the very first Christmas he'd spent at Hogwarts. He hadn't wanted to go home; the howler he'd received after being sorted into Gryffindor and not Slytherin had been bad enough.

So instead he stayed at Hogwarts, awed by the massive Christmas trees and sparkling decorations. James had gone home, and so had Peter, but Remus had stayed.

It had been during those holidays that he had worked out Remus's secret, and confronted him. Remus had been scared; terrified of losing his friend, but Sirius had told him not to be stupid, and their bond of friendship was strengthened.

For the seventh year of Christmas, there were storms 

He had now been in Azkaban for as many years as he had attended Hogwarts. The days blurred into one long, never-ending nightmare.

It was nearing Christmas, though there had been no hint of snow in the grey skies outside his tiny window. Instead, a wild storm had been raging for what seemed like months: giant waves crashed tirelessly against the prison's walls, wind whistled through the empty corridors and rain lashed down endlessly.

Despite the horrific weather, he would have given anything to be out in it, than stuck inside the dark, festering prison with only Dementors for company.

For the eighth year of Christmas, there were strange sounds 

His insane cousin was singing again, the tuneless song interspersed by loud, wracking coughs and mindless cackling.

"The holly and the ivy 

_When they are both full grown_

_Of all the trees that are in the wood_

_The holly bears the crown."_

A Christmas song…was it almost Christmas again, already?

"The holly and the ivy. Poison ivy, that's more like it!"

He heard her cackle again, the laugh in its turn becoming a hacking, barking cough, before she started the song again, the same verse, over and over.

"The holly and the poison ivy When they are both full grown…" 

**For the ninth year of Christmas, there was snow**

Nine years was a long time to be alone, but it was not as though he hadn't had practice.

During his childhood, he had spent a lot of time alone. His parents hadn't had much time for him; they were more interested in following Voldemort's rise. Regulus had been all right, but even as a child he had been fascinated by their parents deeds.

He remembered one Christmas though, when he was nine, and it had snowed. He and Regulus had gone outside, and built a tall snowman, and then exhausted themselves with a snowball fight.

It had been fun.

For the tenth year of Christmas, there was hatred 

He could feel his mind slipping away from him. Every day he felt the creeping, sneaking of the Dementors into his mind, robbing him of his happy memories, his memories of James, of Lily…Remus and even Peter.

His memories of Hogwarts were becoming ever more feeble, birthday and Christmas parties slipping away…

He hated the Dementors for doing this, hated Peter for putting him here. Hated Remus for not coming to his aid, hated James and Lily for dieing, hated Voldemort for killing them.

But most of all he hated himself for not preventing it.

He could have prevented it.

**For the eleventh year of Christmas, there was Hogwarts**

Would Harry be staying at Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays? Or had he made friends that would invite him home?

He had a feeling that Harry wouldn't want to go back to his Aunt and Uncle's after a term at Hogwarts; from what he knew of Petunia and Vernon Dursley, he highly doubted it.

He wondered what sort of presents Harry would get this year. Would he get sweets and chocolate from Honeydukes? Or perhaps a book from Flourish and Blotts?

Whatever Harry got, Sirius knew that all he would wish for would be for his parents and a family.

For the twelfth year of Christmas, there was defeat 

Twelve years.

He couldn't believe that he had been shut up in the prison for twelve years. There had been so many times when he had thought, even for a moment, that there would be an end, that one day he would see the world again, breathe fresh air and see the sky.

But now, now he was starting to accept that he wouldn't, that he would be in Azkaban until the day he died.

Padfoot was becoming less and less of a comfort; even transforming into a dog couldn't stop the relentless cold of the Dementors.

He was defeated.


End file.
